Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?
by Possum132
Summary: The day after the scenes of terror at the Quidditch World Cup, Narcissa Malfoy, Molly Weasley, and Severus Snape read Rita Skeeter’s account of events over their morning tea and toast.
1. Chapter 1: Narcissa Malfoy

**Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?**

_This vignette isn't part of the seven part series that starts with "Why Snape never eats here", I'm just playing with an idea suggested by excessivelyperky. However, if you read the series you will get a better feel for the particular version of the Potterverse in which the story is set_.

**Chapter 1: Narcissa Malfoy**

Draco is still asleep, and she's instructed the house-elves not to wake him for breakfast – it had been after two o'clock in the morning before she'd managed to find him in the crowd and Apparate them home to the Manor – Side-Along Apparition, of course, because Draco is only fourteen, he hasn't got his licence yet. She'd left the house-elves to manage the tent, that wasn't important, the only thing that mattered was to get Draco away from that horrible place, to get away from the screaming, terrified hordes trampling about in the darkness – and away from the Ministry wizards firing Stunners indiscriminately into the crowd.

It had been absolutely awful, a bedlam, a nightmare, and she hadn't even _thought_ of trying to get to sleep herself once they'd got safely home. She'd sat up all night, wrapped in a dressing gown, waiting for a message from Lucius ... but there had been no word. The house-elves had appeared with the tent and their baggage very early in the morning, but they haven't seen the Master, and there's been no owl.

So now she's having tea and toast in her bedroom, and she can barely keep that down, she's so anxious. And she can't stop the tears, either, even though they make her nose run and her eyes puff up, even though a daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, _toujours pur_ shouldn't cry - a daughter of the House of Black should be controlled, lady-like, _dignified_, at all times.

It had been awful – and it had ruined a wonderful evening, Draco had enjoyed the match so much, and Ludo Bagman had been only too happy to arrange for him to get all the players' autographs, even Viktor Krum's ... and Krum had reminded her a little of Severus – dark, brooding and intense – but then wasn't Severus' father Bulgarian or Hungarian or something like that? His father's family were refugees from the Grindelwald war, and his mother was a Slytherin ... Snape would be an Anglicisation of the name ...

And of course they'd had seats in the Top Box, didn't Lucius make the most generous contributions towards worthy causes? Hadn't he just made a large donation to St Mungo's, enough to fund the new 'Dangerous' Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites? And Draco had looked the very picture of a Slytherin princeling when he escorted her to her seat, the living image of Lucius at the same age – and he's so _handsome_ in his dress robes, she'd worried a little when she bought them that he might have grown out of them by the time of the Yule Ball, he's shooting up so fast, he'll be as tall as his father by the time he's sixteen ...

True, it had been an unpleasant shock to find the Top Box full of Weasleys, that Arthur Weasley is such a vindictive beast, saying those terrible things about Lucius causing his daughter to be bewitched - just because Lucius opposed his ridiculous Muggle Protection Act! She'd been hard put not to say something to the nasty creature, but she was determined not spoil the evening by provoking a fight in the presence of the Minister for Magic himself. She'd remembered the brawl in Flourish and Blotts, she hadn't seen it herself, but Draco had told her all about it. Weasley hadn't even tried to hex Lucius, he hadn't fought like a wizard – he'd used his fists like a foul, common, dirt-veined Muggle - a shocking display of Muggle-duelling, though it's some consolation that Lucius had won the fight, given the other man a cut lip ...

But at least Molly Weasley hadn't been there last night, she hadn't had to put up with the insufferable woman gloating over her brood of blood traitors – all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford ...

And how dare the Weasleys have _seven_ children, when they could scarcely feed and clothe them! And they live in some filthy hovel in Devon, amongst a lot of Muggles, extra rooms piled on higgledy-piggledy, it's hard to believe that the Weasleys are pure-blood, they completely lack proper wizarding pride. And the mother is so slatternly and careless ... she remembers the first year she'd taken Draco to catch the Hogwarts Express, a dreadful ordeal struggling through the crowds of Muggles milling about, and the traffic outside Kings Cross had been appalling ... the Weasley woman had let go of her daughter's hand for a minute and the little girl had nearly been run over. She'd said something sharp to the mother, something cutting about her having plenty of children left if she happened to lose one.

And Ginevra Weasley is growing up, she might be quite pretty if she was properly dressed – and if her hair wasn't so obviously cut at home! Yes, if the mother dressed her daughter decently, had her hair cut properly – and taught her _manners_ - she'd be quite presentable, but the girl looks like a wild little tomboy, and what decent wizard will want to marry her, even if she is pure-blood?

She remembers her first encounter with Molly Weasley, it was years ago now, in the reception area at St Mungo's, Draco had been scarcely twelve months old and he'd been feverish all night, and too fretful even to feed – by the time they'd Flooed to St Mungo's she'd been nearly hysterical, convinced it was something really dangerous, dragon pox or worse - and Lucius had been, if it were possible, even more upset than she was. He'd left her alone with Draco for a minute while he went to speak to the witch at the Enquiries Desk, they were _Malfoys_, they couldn't be expected to stand around in a queue when their only son and heir was seriously ill ...

She'd found herself standing next to a redheaded woman with a squalling brat in her arms, a couple of toddlers underfoot and three older boys trailing after her - and clearly expecting yet _another_ child - and when the woman had noticed her eyes straying to her bulging belly, the ghastly woman had tried to make conversation, she'd said, _Is the little boy your first? Teething, I expect, you'll find it a lot easier with your second ..._

The impertinence of the woman! How dare she! And it had been teething, Draco had been perfectly well once the tooth broke through the gum ...

She thinks, damn Molly Weasley and her litter of blood traitors! Damn her and damn her sons ... it makes me _sick_ the way she talks about them - Bill, my eldest, he's a curse-breaker with Gringotts, Charlie works with dragons in Rumania, Percy has just started at the Ministry, personal assistant to Mr Couch! Oh, that _sow_ Molly Weasley has plenty of sons, but I ... I only have Draco, and if anything happened to him, I couldn't bear it ... and it's a miracle I have Draco, he was conceived after I'd given up hope. We'd been married for years, and I couldn't understand it, I couldn't understand why I wasn't getting pregnant, Lucius slept in my bed every night that he could, every night that he wasn't sent on a mission for the Dark Lord. And the way my father-in-law Abraxas looked at me ... I couldn't stand it any longer, I had to know the worst, so we went to St Mungo's, and the Healers asked the oddest question _– did Lucius wear tight Muggle underwear? _ And then they told us that Lucius was the one with the problem ...

She remembers the conversation she'd overheard not long after their visit to St Mungo's, her father-in-law Abraxas' angry voice had floated through the open study door, listing the names of pure-blood Slytherin families without sons to carry on their names – and then he'd said, _If Narcissa can't give you sons, my boy, then divorce her - and find a nice young pure-blood witch who can! _

Abraxas had walked out of the study, brushed past her without a word ... but Lucius had taken her by the hand, pulled her into the room, locked the door, and fumbled frantically at her robes. He'd wanted to make love to her there and then, and she couldn't refuse him, even though - to tell the truth - the study desk was both dreadfully unromantic _and_ horribly uncomfortable. No, she couldn't refuse him, he'd been so urgent and desperate – and she'd realised then that he was afraid that _she_ would leave _him_, afraid that she'd leave him for a wizard who could give her children, so she'd ignored the discomfort of the inkwell pressing into her back and whispered words of reassurance in his ear, whispered that she loves him, only him, and has only ever loved him ... and although she can't be sure, she likes to think that Draco was conceived at that moment, conceived in love.

Lucius, my darling Lucius, she thinks, _where are you?_ And then the house-elf scampers into the room with the _Daily Prophet_, she snatches it out of the creature's hands, and even though she'd been expecting to see it, she can't repress a whimper of fear at the sight of the twinkling, black and white photograph of the Dark Mark over the tree-tops, because although she's never reproached Lucius - will never reproach him - for taking the Dark Mark, she's afraid of the Dark Lord.

Even before the Dark Lord revealed himself, even before he moved openly against the Ministry, even before it was forbidden to use his name, she'd been afraid of the Dark Lord, she'd know that it was a lifetime of service or death even before Regulus had been executed. Regulus ... she doesn't know much about what happened, neither Lucius nor Bella would ever talk about it, all she knows is that Regulus was a Death Eater, he'd disappointed the Dark Lord, and he'd been executed.

She reads the headline ...

**SCENES OF TERROR AT THE WORLD CUP**

**by Rita Skeeter**

She skims through the first few paragraphs of the article, it's what she expected to read ...

_Ministry blunders ...culprits not apprehended ... lax security ... Dark wizards running unchecked ... national disgrace ... _

She thinks, how long before the Aurors are here? Lucius was cleared of all charges by a full hearing of the Wizengamot but we're still on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's watch list! Whenever _anything_ happens, they search the Manor, they check Lucius' wand, _Prior Incanto_ ... it happened when Gringotts was broken into, when there was trouble at Hogwarts in Draco's second year, when Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban ...

And then she thinks – what if it was Lucius who cast _Morsmordre? _He could be in Azkaban already - with Bella, or rather, with the empty shell of the witch who had once been beautiful, clever, spirited Bellatrix Black ...

She remembers the week that Lucius spent in Azkaban, just after the Dark Lord fell – she wasn't allowed to see him, Death Eaters aren't allowed visitors, or messages, or anything that might give them a sliver of happiness ... and she feels utter despair.

And then she remembers the wanted posters for Sirius Black, a haggard wreck of a man, almost nothing remains of her cousin's once-fabulous good looks ... and then she has hope, because it must have been Sirius! Lucius would _never_ have been so foolish as to cast the Dark Mark ... and Sirius is insane, a fanatic, he'd betrayed his best friend to the Dark Lord, he hasn't made contact with anyone since he broke out of Azkaban - thank Merlin - it must have been him! Yes, Sirius must have been at the World Cup, it's the kind of thing a madman would do, and when he saw Lucius and the others having a little fun with the Muggles, he'd cast the Dark Mark!

She feels a little calmer, takes a sip of tea, and reads on further ...

_If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark, alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen ..._

The teacup slips from her hand, smashes on the floor ... bodies! The Ministry have removed several bodies! Oh, Rita Skeeter is a vile woman, she wrote the most exaggerated rubbish about Lucius' trial – but several bodies, that must mean at least _one_ body! If Lucius is dead ... no, it can't be, it can't, it _can't_ - I would surely have heard from the Ministry by now, they would at least let me see the body to identify it ...

She repeats to herself like a mantra, _no news is good news_, _no news is good news_, _no news is good news_ ... but now the tears are running down her face in a flood. Oh, why did Lucius and the others have to get so drunk, if only Severus had been there! Severus is so clever, and so sensible – he would have talked them out of it, he would have said, leave the Muggles alone, it isn't worth it, it isn't worth the risk ... he's Lucius' best friend and Lucius would have listened to him!

Then there's a tap on the door, she struggles to compose herself, she must look an absolute fright ... it's Draco, stumbling into her room, still yawning, still half asleep, and asking, _where's dad?_

She looks at him, and she thinks, he's growing out of those pyjamas already, he'll need new ones before he goes to Hogwarts, and then she smiles brightly - she mustn't panic, she mustn't upset Draco, after all, _no news is good news_.

She folds the newspaper so that he won't see the photograph of the Dark Mark, and says, lightly, cheerfully, bravely, _I'm sure that your father will be home soon - he's a Malfoy, those clots at the Ministry won't dare to detain him for long ... do you want some toast, darling?_


	2. Chapter 2: Molly Weasley

**Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?**

**Chapter 2: Molly Weasley**

She'd thought, it'll make a lovely change, not having to cook - Arthur and the kids won't be back from the World Cup until after lunch tomorrow, they'll be up to all hours tonight ... they'll sleep in for _hours_ in the morning, and then they'll probably Portkey back with the Lovegoods. Thank Merlin Ludo Bagman arranged free tickets for us, if we'd had to buy tickets I don't know how we would have managed – and you have to arrive two weeks beforehand if you've got the cheapest tickets. The Lovegoods have been there for a week, but they don't mind, Luna said they were going to look for - what was it? Not Snorkacks, they're only found in Sweden ... what an imagination that child has! I worry about her sometimes, the poor motherless mite, and it's awful that she had to see her mother die, Merlin knows what effect that's had on her - at least Harry was only a baby when his parents were killed, he won't remember a thing about it. Luna is ... different ... but she's a clever little thing and sometimes I think she understands much more than she lets on, it was no surprise when she was Sorted into Ravenclaw.

Free tickets to the World Cup, and it's the first time that it's been held in Britain for thirty years! Ludo could only wangle ten, but I don't mind not going, I can listen to the broadcast of the match on the Wizarding Wireless Network. And it's a bit of a break for me, really – it's been _bedlam_ with eleven people in the house! Free tickets – and in the Top Box, too, and all those boys are Quidditch mad, well, maybe not Percy so much ... and it will be a real experience for Hermione, too, to see a crowd of a hundred thousand wizards from all over the world. It's amazing how clever that girl is, sometimes I think she knows more about the wizarding world than Ron even if she is Muggle-born, I've certainly never seen _him_ with a copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ in his hands!

And then she'd thought, Hermione is such a good influence on Ron and now that Percy has left Hogwarts and won't be able to keep an eye on him, I worry about the example set by Fred and George ... they didn't even _want_ to be prefects, and their OWLs were _atrocious_. They passed Transfiguration and Potions, and that's because only Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape can keep them under control – it was very sweet of Professor Flitwick to write me a note to say that their results in Charms don't reflect their abilities, but I would have preferred them to pass the examination! And if their NEWTs aren't a lot better, how are they going to get jobs when they finish school?

She'd brooded for a minute over her last words to the twins – _behave yourselves_ – fat chance of that! And Arthur lets them get away with far too much ... like that wretched flying car! If the twins hadn't taken that car to fetch Harry away from his Muggle relatives, Harry and Ron would never have thought of flying it to Hogwarts.

But when she'd remembered what George had said, _they were starving him, Mum!_ she couldn't help softening towards them. They're not bad boys, really, and they've got brains – they just don't apply themselves. Not like Percy, Head Boy at Hogwarts - and now he's personal assistant to Barty Crouch! The twins might laugh about Percy's report on cauldron bottoms, but Percy has a bright future in front of him ...

And then she'd thought, loyally, not that Arthur couldn't have had a great career in the Ministry, he's just not ambitious. And I hope he doesn't fight with Lucius Malfoy again tonight, the Malfoys are bound to have tickets to the Top Box ... though, to tell the truth, I'd punch that man myself if I got the chance, after what he did to Ginny - Dumbledore says it was Lucius Malfoy who slipped that nasty enchanted thing into her cauldron! At least he was sacked from the Board of Governors, not that Cornelius Fudge seems to care, all that man thinks about is balancing the Ministry budget - and the Malfoys give donations for this, and donations for that, they've got Fudge eating out of their hand.

She can remember Lucius Malfoy from school, she'd been a sixth year prefect when he was Sorted into Slytherin, the Sorting Hat had barely touched his head before it shouted _Slytherin!_ And he'd been a horrid little beast even then, full of pure-blood prejudice, sneering at Muggle-borns and half-bloods ... she'd deducted House points, once, for using the word "Mudblood". Oh, he'd swaggered about the school, boasting about his money and his Manor, and gathering a nasty little clique about him, Bellatrix Black and Rodolphus Lestrange and some others ... most of whom are in Azkaban now.

Lucius had married Bellatrix' younger sister, Narcissa - Arthur is related to the Blacks but of course he hadn't been invited to the wedding, and they wouldn't have gone even if they _had_ been invited – there'd been pages of colour photographs in _Witch Weekly_, it had been the society event of the year. She couldn't help noticing the photographs of beautiful blonde Narcissa Black, looking radiantly happy on the arm of her handsome groom, as she flicked through the magazine looking for hints on how to get three family meals out of a single chicken ... or reading the article, either. She'd wondered, a little spitefully, if Narcissa would still have that lovely slender figure by the time she'd provided Abraxas Malfoy with the anticipated "Quidditch team of grandsons to carry on the Malfoy name" - but it had been a long time before there'd been a notice in the _Daily Prophet_ announcing the birth of a child to the Malfoys ... and then there'd been a catty little piece about it by Rita Skeeter in _Witch Weekly_, suggesting that before the baby was born, the Malfoys had been on the brink of divorce due to Narcissa's inability to produce a son and heir.

She'd recognised Narcissa Malfoy at once, that morning in St Mungo's – it was her last pre-natal appointment before Ginny was born, and she'd had to drag all the kids into St Mungo's with her, she just couldn't find _anyone_ to mind them that day. Narcissa had been standing there, all alone, while her husband made himself obnoxious to the witch on the Enquiries desk, and it had been easy enough to see that the haughty, elegant young woman clutching the squalling baby was just another frightened first-time mum, so she'd tried to say something reassuring and she'd put her foot right into it, she'd said, _Is the little boy your first? Teething, I expect, you'll find it a lot easier with your second ... _And remembering the look on Narcissa's face when she'd said those words, she'd thought, no, I don't envy Narcissa Malfoy her house-elves and her jewellery and her dozens of sets of dress robes – or her Death Eater husband. Lucius Malfoy was cleared of all charges by a full hearing of the Wizengamot on the grounds of bewitchment under the Imperius Curse, but Arthur doesn't believe it, and neither do I!

And then she'd realised that time was getting on, so she'd made a scratch tea for herself, fed Hermione's orange monster of a cat, turned the wireless on, and settled down with her knitting to listen to the match, a excited stream of the players' names and Quidditch phrases ... _Wronski Feint, Hawkshead attacking formation, Porskoff Ploy_ ... until it was over, until Ludo Bagman shouted IRELAND WIN ... KRUM GETS THE SNITCH BUT IRELAND WIN!

She'd turned off the wireless, put some owl treats out on the kitchen table for the newspaper delivery owl - because she'd planned to have a nice bit of a lie-in the next morning - and gone upstairs to bed, but she'd lain awake for a while, because usually Arthur is by her side, and it feels odd to have the bed to herself. It had started to rain a little, and she'd drowsily wondered if Arthur and the kids are alright, but of course they'll be OK, old Perkins' tent might smell of cats but it's perfectly weather proof ...

But her dreams of lying in bed until at least ten o'clock had been rudely shattered by Crookshanks, who'd trotted into the bedroom and proudly presented her with a live, wriggling, squealing gnome just before dawn. So she'd got up, thrown cat and gnome into the yard, made a pot of tea and some toast, and now she's sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, yawning, and unfolding the _Daily Prophet_, thinking, there'll be ten pages about the match – and umpteen advertisements for expensive brooms, I know how much Ron wants a new broom, but we just can't afford it.

But when she sees the front page, when she sees the twinkling, black and white photograph of the Dark Mark over the tree-tops, the teacup slips out of her hand and shatters on the floor – and all she can think is, _he's back, he's come back, You Know Who is back, that's his Mark – the Morsmordre!_

And it had all come flooding back, the constant fear, because although Arthur wasn't an Auror, although he wasn't in the Order of the Phoenix, they'd still been blood traitors, and that was enough, that was enough reason for You Know Who to send his Death Eaters to kill them, to kill the whole family ... he'd sent five Death Eaters to kill her brothers ...

She reads the headline ...

**SCENES OF TERROR AT THE WORLD CUP**

**by Rita Skeeter**

She skims through the first few paragraphs of the article ... phrases jump out at her, but she's too agitated to make much sense of them.

_Ministry blunders ...culprits not apprehended ... lax security ... Dark wizards running unchecked ... national disgrace ... _

She thinks, this is how it started last time, Muggle-baiting, people didn't take it too seriously at first, after all, Muggles don't really count ... and then they got bolder, they started to kill Muggle-borns, and then it was war, Bill and Charlie will remember what it was like, even Percy must remember something, but the twins and Ron and Ginny are too young ... and it wasn't just killing, it was worse things but the Ministry didn't allow the _Daily Prophet_ to print the details ...

She forces herself to calm down, to read the article carefully ... and it's not as bad as she feared, the Death Eaters Disapparated as soon as the Dark Mark was cast, and surely they wouldn't have done that if their master had returned, they would have stayed and fought the Aurors.

And then she thinks – Sirius Black! He's quite insane, it must have been him! Yes, Black must have been at the World Cup, it's the kind of thing a madman would do, and when he saw his old friends tormenting those poor Muggles, he cast the Dark Mark. And he's the Auror Corps number one priority at the moment, they must catch up with him soon, Kingsley Shacklebolt is leading the team hunting for Black, and he's a very capable wizard.

She tells herself, there's nothing to be worried about, really, and maybe the Death Eaters who managed to keep out of Azkaban are even more frightened of Sirius Black than we are, he might want revenge for their disloyalty, he might want revenge for twelve years in Azkaban ...

She feels a little calmer, starts to pour another cup of tea, and reads on further ...

_If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark, alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen ... _

The teapot wobbles in her hand, tea spills over the table ... bodies! The Ministry have removed several bodies!

Visions of dead Weasleys flood through her mind, Arthur sprawled on the ground, his glasses askew, a trickle of blood running down his face ... Bill, spread-eagled on his back, his eyes wide open and empty ... dead Charlie, dead Percy, dead twins, dead Ron, dead Ginny ... but perhaps it's Hermione, she's Muggle-born, they'd kill her if they could – or Harry, he's the Boy Who Lived, any Death Eater would jump at the chance to kill Harry!

And she thinks, no, the Ministry would be here by now if it was one of the family ... and I haven't heard anything, I haven't got an owl, no one's Flooed – they must be safe! And she repeats to herself like a mantra, _no news is good news_, _no news is good news_, _no news is good news ..._


	3. Chapter 3: Severus Snape

**Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?**

**Chapter 3: Severus Snape**

Lucius had offered to get him a ticket to the Top Box, but he'd refused – because, frankly, he didn't really enjoy Quidditch, even if he was keenly interested in the Slytherin team and never missed a House match, and could manage a broom well enough to referee a game. He'd snarled a little at the memory of that game, Harry-bloody-Potter's second Quidditch match, the atmosphere in the staff room had been arctic when everybody thought he was trying to sabotage Gryffindor's chances – and even Filius had been a bit short with him.

And he didn't want to see Fudge again, not after the outburst when Black had escaped, he'd really lost control, he'd raved and screamed like a madman, and he had a nasty feeling that he'd come close to foaming at the mouth. Black had Confunded the brats alright, and it had freaked him out completely, being back in the Shrieking Shack with Black and Lupin and the Potter-clone - the boy's resemblance to his father is truly extraordinary, he has nothing of his mother about him other than those green eyes. Except for the absence of that little rat Pettigrew it had been like facing the Marauders all over again, four against one, and it had really rocked him ... there was one consolation, though, he'd outed the werewolf, got the filthy beast kicked out of Hogwarts ...

He didn't want to run the risk of seeing Karkaroff again, either – the prick had named him as a Death Eater in front of a full hearing of the Wizengamot, in front of two hundred witches and wizards. Not that he really cared, after all, Moody had arrested the bastard on the information that he'd provided, but he still didn't want to see him – and he'd be seeing enough of Karkaroff at Hogwarts, anyway.

But he hadn't refused Narcissa's invitation to dinner before the match, _very informal, just a handful of close friends – and the children will be eating with us. _So he'd strolled through the campsite, feeling slightly self-conscious in his Muggle jeans, shirt and jacket, until he'd found the Malfoy tent - and that was easy enough, Lucius' idea of roughing it was three stories high and boasted several turrets. He'd snorted a little with amusement, he could just see Lucius putting _that_ up by hand, with a mallet and tent pegs – not!

He'd snorted again when he saw Lucius and Draco in Muggle clothing – in their black dinner jackets they looked the perfect picture of Muggle landed gentry dressed for dinner, except for their long white-blond hair tied back with black silk ribbons in a style more reminiscent of the Regency era. He'd thought, Draco has grown up over the summer, he'll be as tall as his father in a couple of years - and he'd been careful to hide a smile as he listened to Lucius' opinions coming out of Draco's mouth, _the Irish have seven good players, the Bulgarians have one superb one ... Ireland will win the game but Krum will catch the Snitch_. He'd thought, indulgently, Draco worships his father, he models his every word and gesture on Lucius - and with all the naivety and arrogance of adolescence, the kid thinks the ideas that he's spouting are his own! And then he'd remembered when he was fourteen, when he'd almost worshipped handsome, charming, wealthy, pure-blood Lucius Malfoy ...

It had been a shock when Narcissa came gliding down the stairs to greet him - he'd never seen her wear anything but robes before, and she looked bloody amazing in a tight black silk sheath that looked as if it had been painted onto her body, and her blonde hair twisted up in an elegant knot at the back of her head. He'd gaped at her like a teenager, both shocked and aroused at the sight of the pure-blood Slytherin princess dressed like a Muggle vamp, and then, embarrassed, he'd looked away - how he felt about Narcissa was no secret from Lucius but he didn't want his favourite student to guess how much his Head of House wanted to get into bed with his beautiful mother.

Dinner had been pleasant enough, the food was good - as always - and the children had been allowed to eat with the adults, but at a separate table. He'd enjoyed the feeling of being with friends – well, not exactly _friends_, but people who knew what was burned into his left forearm and didn't shrink away from him in disgust – and the chatter around the table. Ireland's prospects in the match, of course, and Ministry gossip ... the thousands of Galleons it cost to host the World Cup and the dent it had made in the Ministry's finances, Fudge's new Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge – an ugly toad of a witch, it didn't seem possible that she'd slept her way into the job - Scrimgeour's ambitions, who'd been prosecuted under Arthur Weasley's Muggle Protection Act, the trouble brewing with the Gringotts goblins, and who was in the running for an Order of Merlin this year – that had stung him for a minute ...

Finally, the conversation had got around to the Triwizard Cup – he'd told them that Dumbledore himself would draw an age line around the Goblet of Fire, and you didn't need to be a Legilimens to see how thankful Narcissa was that they'd changed the rules so that no student who wasn't of age could compete – all for the benefit of Harry Potter. Famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the boy who'd disposed of Quirrell with a single touch, killed a Basilisk, the boy who was capable of producing a corporeal Patronus at the age of thirteen - according to Lupin, anyway - of course the little bastard would want to compete, but Potter is the _weapon_, he mustn't be allowed to risk his precious life – and he's the Headmaster's _darling._

Everyone had looked at him, asked his opinion of who the Hogwarts champion would be – and it was galling to have to admit that there wasn't a Slytherin candidate amongst his sixth and seventh years, Warrington and Montague had the guts, but he wasn't sure that they had the brains. He'd named Cedric Diggory as his choice, and there'd been laughter, but the laughter had stopped when he'd said that Diggory was the most talented young wizard to be Sorted into Hufflepuff since Edgar Bones, and all eyes had turned to Lucius - everyone knew he'd been on the raid that had killed Edgar Bones, his Muggle wife and their entire litter of half-bloods. Lucius had just shrugged and smiled – and leaned across the table to pour him some more wine ...

Not that he'd drunk too much to Apparate home to Spinner's End, the Muggle maxim _don't drink and drive_ had nothing on the risks of splinching yourself Apparating while pissed – there was no Floo at the campsite and Spinner's End isn't connected to the Floo Network, anyway. No one knows about Spinner's End, he rarely uses magic there even though it's warded to hide the use of magic, and it's not in his Ministry file or his personnel records at Hogwarts – and his subscription to the _Daily Prophet_ is not, of course, in his own name.

He'd kissed Narcissa goodbye, a chaste kiss on the cheek, said goodnight to Lucius while Narcissa went upstairs to change into something warmer, and he'd wondered about these old pure-blood families - Lucius knew very well that every wizard that he'd entertained tonight wanted to screw his wife, and he didn't seem to care ... if Narcissa had been _his_ wife, he would never have let her wear such a revealing dress, not in a room full of pure-blood Slytherin wizards to whom a Muggle dress like that screamed "slut".

But he couldn't stop thinking about Narcissa as he walked up from the river - because he _never_ Apparates straight to Spinner's End, even though the Anti-Apparition wards don't affect him. If it had been a Saturday night, he'd have been cruising a Muggle singles bar in London looking for a divorced mother of three or a career woman who forgot to get married, but it's a Monday night, there's nothing to do and nowhere to go - even Knockturn Alley will be deserted until the match is over.

When he'd walked through the door, he'd thought, _the match has already started and I don't feel like listening to the broadcast on the Wizarding Wireless Network anyway_ – so he'd settled into the scruffy old armchair in the sitting room with the remains of a bottle of firewhisky, and turned on the television. But every channel seemed to show tantalising, half-naked blonde Muggle females, and he still couldn't stop thinking about Narcissa, thinking of loosening that blonde hair and running his fingers through it, of pulling down the zipper of that dress, and watching her step out of it. Hell, the fact that she was the wife of his best friend didn't bother him - if a wizard hasn't got the power to guard what is his, he doesn't have the right to keep it - but what did bother him was that Narcissa has the ability to make him feel as if he's still a fumbling, importunate teenager. She lets him kiss her, she lets him touch her, but she never lets him get beyond second base ...

Finally, frustrated, lonely and miserable, he'd got up and switched on the wireless just in time to hear Ludo Bagman shout IRELAND WIN ... KRUM GETS THE SNITCH BUT IRELAND WIN! Then he'd left some owl treats on the kitchen table for the newspaper delivery owl - he didn't have any nine am lessons to prepare for, thank Merlin, and he planned to stay in bed until at least mid-morning - and gone upstairs to bed, but he hadn't been able to sleep, so he'd bowed to the inevitable, because every bachelor wizard is, of necessity, intimately acquainted with Mrs Palm and her five daughters. And, to his surprise, he'd found himself remembering red hair and green eyes, wondering if Lily had lived whether she would have kept her looks as well as Narcissa has, and then he'd thought, if the Dark Lord had chosen the Longbottom boy, if the Dark Lord hadn't fallen, James Potter – Auror, blood traitor and member of the Order of the Phoenix - would certainly still have died, but he might have been able to save Lily ...

He might still have been able to save Lily if he'd begged the Dark Lord for her life, begged on his knees - and perhaps the brat, too, the Dark Lord might have been amused by the thought of the son of one of his enemies being raised as a faithful Death Eater. And Lily would have been grateful, more than grateful - she would have given herself to him willingly, more than willingly ... and in his mind she'd been whispering passionately in his ear, she'd been begging him not to stop, and she'd called _his_ name as she writhed in his arms, because he knows exactly where and how to touch her to give her pleasure.

But when it was over, when the brief moment of release was over, he'd curled up alone in his bed, just as wretched and sleepless as ever, because he'd known in his heart of hearts that it was only a fantasy, a dream - Lily might have sold herself to him for the sake of her son, but she would have been revolted when she knew what he was, when she knew what was burned into his left arm ... and he, he would have behaved like a beast, he would still have taken whatever she offered, because that's how he's always lived – taking whatever he can get.

So he'd brooded for a little while, smoked a couple of cigarettes, and then he'd tossed down a goblet of Dreamless Sleep potion. He'd slept until late in the morning, and now he's stumbling downstairs, feeling slightly seedy and hung-over, he's slumping into the scruffy old armchair with a mug of tea and a plate of toast, thinking, it's not much more than a week until the start of term and I have to deal with Moody and Karkaroff, fuck, this is going to be a fun year ... and I'd better mow the lawn today, that's one job I'm not doing without magic, Otto Bagman's enchanted lawnmower has nothing on mine ...

He's unfolding the _Daily Prophet_, still yawning, and thinking, the paper will be nothing but page after page of crap about the World Cup, and advertisements for expensive broomsticks, I don't know why I'm bothering to read it ... but when he sees the front page, when he sees the twinkling, black and white photograph of the Dark Mark above the tree-tops, very slowly, very carefully he puts down his mug of tea.

His first, panicked, thought is that Dark Lord has returned – but the Dark Mark didn't burn last night, and it hurts like hell, it would have woken him even from a drugged sleep. Just in case, he rolls up his sleeve, checks his arm, but there's nothing to see.

And his second thought is, how long before the Aurors are at Hogwarts, looking for me? Albus said it before a full hearing of the Wizengamot, he said, _Severus Snape is now no more a Death Eater than I am_, but I'm still on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's watch list! And whenever _anything_ happens, they search my office and my quarters, they check my wand, _Prior Incanto_ ... it happened when Gringotts was broken into, when the trouble started at Hogwarts two years ago, when Black broke out of Azkaban ...

He reads the headline ...

**SCENES OF TERROR AT THE WORLD CUP**

**by Rita Skeeter**

He skims through the first few paragraphs of the article, picking up the gist of it ...

_Ministry blunders ...culprits not apprehended ... lax security ... Dark wizards running unchecked ... national disgrace ..._

He thinks, the idiots, the bloody _idiots_, Muggle-baiting at the World Cup - the place was crawling with Ministry wizards, what the hell did they think they were doing? And just how smashed did they get after the game? Lucius wasn't drunk at dinner ... but he would have been as pleased as Punch when the match turned out the way he expected, he must have got completely pissed afterwards. But who was the fucking idiot who conjured the Dark Mark? Not Lucius, even drunk he'd never do anything so cretinous ... Avery wouldn't have the nerve - the pusillanimous twat - and Crabbe and Goyle never do anything without orders ... it couldn't have been Lucius, it _couldn't_.

But his heart has turned to ice in his chest, remembering the week that Lucius spent in Azkaban, just after the Dark Lord fell, and the trial ... it had been a three ring circus, and Rita Skeeter had splashed every detail of the accusations across the front page of the _Daily Prophet_, but Lucius had been cleared of all charges on the grounds of bewitchment under the Imperius Curse - what a joke, when Lucius is the most accomplished wizard in the use of _imperio_ that he's ever seen, barring the Dark Lord, of course!

He's thinking, if Lucius is caught casting the Dark Mark, it will be straight to Azkaban, they won't bother with a trial, not for a second offence ... and then he remembers Sirius Black.

He reaches for his now luke-warm mug of tea, mutters a quick warming Charm, and thinks about the situation calmly, rationally. Black is a madman, as fanatical as his cousin Bellatrix – James Potter had been a fool to trust Black, and his stupidity and arrogance had cost Lily her life – Black hasn't contacted anyone since he escaped from Azkaban, but he could easily have been at the World Cup ... the arsehole loved Quidditch enough when he was at Hogwarts ... and when he saw Lucius and the others having a little fun with the Muggles, he'd got carried away and he'd cast the _Morsmordre. _And it's only Muggle-baiting, no one has been killed, and who cares about a bunch of Muggles being hung upside down, anyway? Not even the Ministry cares, not really ...

He reads on further, and then, furiously, he hurls his mug at the opposite wall, smashes it, and he doesn't care about the tea dripping over the spines of the books bound in black and brown leather ...

_If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark, alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen ..._

He's thinking, Rita Skeeter is a vile bitch and she sensationalises everything, but several bodies, that must mean at least _one_ body! And we only ever cast the Dark Mark when we'd made a kill, those were the Dark Lord's orders ... sweet Merlin, Lucius has killed someone! The crazy bastard, what has he _done?_ I know the _Avada Kedavra_ is a real kick, better than sex, better than "recreational potions", but the Auror Corps will go apeshit now, this might even cost Fudge his job - and it will mean the Kiss for Lucius, if they can catch him!

Then he remembers how much he'd wanted to use the Killing Curse on Black in the Shrieking Shack, he'd pointed his wand straight between Black's eyes, and he'd imagined saying the words, imagined the flash of green light, imagined the surge of blood-lust ... but he'd kept control, he'd _had_ to keep control, because once he started, he might not have been able to stop. He would have killed the werewolf for certain - no loss that, and the brute was about to transform anyway – but then he might have ...

No, he can't bear to think of it, he can't bear to think of what he might have done, and he cringes back in his armchair, thinking, desperately – the Headmaster trusts me, Dumbledore trusts me with James Potter's son, and I'll never hurt the boy, I'll never hurt Lily's child ... Albus _trusts_ me ...


End file.
